London was pretty amazing. For those who know me, you might've heard me moan about the city and how I hate it and it's chaotic and it turns you into a beast that basically bashes into people on the street/ in the tube/ in stores and doesn't give a fuck (that was me in the summer when at RADA) but this weekend the weather was so perfect that the entire city transformed in front of my own eyes. Not to mention the diagonal pedestrian crossing at Oxford Circus. I have to say I felt like a naked person on display while running across the massive junction but it also got you places quicker. It was about time.
At one point, Thalia, Emilia and I lost my aunt and Afxentis who were hovering some meters in front of us while we were loitering on Wigmore Street. We spent a minimum of half an hour absent-mindedly walking circles around the same block without realizing it, or possibly without wanting to regain purposeful direction in our route of travel. I think we all secretly wanted to have the sun continue to kiss our faces for a bit longer, a bit longer please, before we dived into yet another hotel lobby. I was carrying a Selfridges bag, including my only purchase of the day (non-edible at least, we basically raped Lola's cupcakes store): LOVE magazine. Biannual 'Fashion and Fame' (as it says on the cover) publication which I enjoy very very much. They do multiple covers for every issue (or at least they did two for their 2nd issue and eight for this one out now) and the Spring/Summer 2010 cover features some lovely naked ladies, from Kate Moss to Naomi Campbell and Daria Werbowy all looking like the goddesses on earth they truly are. Damn it I left the magazine on Emilia's kitchen table.
London was also fun as I got to see a person I always have a great time with, which was out of my life for the past couple of years due to some unfortunate glitch in our strange relationship but it's purely miraculous. the way a person's face instantly makes you smile. The amount of times I accused him of being stupidly funny could not have been taken seriously when I had a massive grin on my face that lapsed into my usual cackle whenever I tried to gobble up all the laughter he induced. Funny, sweet boy. He says I used to not like the word 'sweet', which is true, I did not like the word sweet but now I find there's a weird homeliness to it, a coziness attached to it. He is definitely handsome, he always was maybe that's what I'm trying to say. It's more than that though he's goofy in the sweetest (fuck I can't help it!) way charming in his own way and smiles sideways. Wears fingerless gloves, vagabond style. Might be found reading Bulgakov or 'Candide'. Capable of some very intellectual conversation which feels light and refreshing. Not like the imposing bastards of Cambridge. And makes goofy grammar jokes which I adore. We definitely linger around the same frequencies as sentences have been completed an abnormal number of times.
Sunny London made it even better. Sitting at a cafe with a cigarette and coffee, the sun shining and the roaring traffic's boom temporarily shut out, I faced him and felt I could be in this mode forever. In cafes everywhere. Around the world. Happy and clever, perceptive. In my red coat and his vagabond gloves, double espressos with lots of sugar, please. That way, I'm not bitter.
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